Friday, April 27, 2012

Live and in person

Dear blog,
It's not you. It's me.
Love, Kari

If you live here and would like to see me wearing a dress and pretending to be a functioning member of society, please come to the Red Poppy on Sunday night for a 7pm show. The delightful and very talented Katy Stephan, has asked me to tell a story as part of her show. By Sunday, I should even know what that story is.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Spring break

I was just sitting here, compulsively checking my email in case my future spouse has just selected me among thousands of internet strangers (have you tried internet dating? It promotes all kinds of super healthy habits), when I suddenly remembered--hey! didn't I claim to be a writer somewhere along the way? Maybe I should give that a whirl. Now, before you get all excited about my new leaf, let me state for the record that I still haven't A) reviewed my Italian, B) set foot in the gym , or C)gone to the grocery store. But at this point, I'm celebrating all small accomplishments. To wit: I folded several sweaters that were strewn about and I put the closet! Hooray for me!

New York!

The Algonquin was closed for renovations, which thwarted me from crossing a Dorothy Parker salute cocktail off my Life List, but I did get to meet Winnie the Pooh, so I think it all evens out. (It's true. The real Winnie was at the NY Public Library along with Tigger, Kanga, Eeyore, someone I didn't recognize who was wearing a string of pearls (who is not in the pictures, I note. Perhaps she was their chaperone), and Piglet, who is a good deal smaller than I imagined. No wonder he was afraid of Heffalumps. I got all teary-eyed immediately upon seeing them, but that is hardly surprising. I love those guys.)

If you go to New York, I would highly recommend that you do so in April during a week when the weather is perfect and everything is in bloom. When you stand waiting to cross the street, a flurry of petals from nearby trees will swirl around you in the manner of confetti and you will be the star of your own constant Easter parade. I further suggest that you stay with a terribly beautiful, funny, generous hostess who lives on Central Park West. I was fortunate in that I already had one of these, but you should take the necessary time to find one of your own. Truly, it makes all the difference: high ceilings, deco details, an expansive view over the treetops of Central Park to the East Side skyline beyond. It was like being on Fantasy Island. I had a delightful time.

Things I Meant to Do, but Didn't
1. See the Noel Coward exhibit at the Performing Arts Library.
2. Go to a museum of any kind, but notably the Tenement Museum (and apologies to the Blog Bully who wanted me to go to the Whitney)
3. Go out to tea
4. See 4,000 Miles at Lincoln Center (which was only about four blocks from the apartment). It was sold out.

Things I Meant to Do, and Did
1. See several friends, including Talya who came all the way down from Amherst, and two former students I hadn't seen in years. (Everyone's doing well; thanks for asking.)
2. Have dinner at Cafe Habana, as recommended by my friend Bill. Cheap! And delicious.
3. See a play. I knew I'd be sad if I didn't go to the theatre, but I kind of blew it on the half-price ticket booth, so I bought a last-minute mezzanine seat for David Ives' Venus in Fur. I liked about half of it very much.
4. Walk along the High Line. I am a very vocal fan of the High Line. Particularly in springtime. I can't overemphasize this enough: springtime.
5. Go to Smalls jazz club in the Village. Marvel that you can arrive somewhere at 1am on a Thursday night (Friday morning for all you sticklers) and have it be packed. Damn, New York. You're not messing around.

Things I Hadn't Particularly Meant to Do, but Did Anyway
1. Injure my foot with all the walk, walk, walking such that I was limping pretty significantly on the last day (and indeed well into last week).
2. Get completely lost in the Village. Again. Argh. Why is West 4th next to West 10th? Why is the Hudson River where I was pretty sure I'd find Washington Square? Damn you, Village. Damn you.
3. Have Pimm's cups in a sunny restaurant with Talya.
4. Eat an entire sea bass at a fancy restaurant with flocks of waiters.
5. Get in a taxi driven by a man who could not get me from 63rd Street to 53rd Street. (Before all you fitness champions get all "serves you right" about my taking a taxi a mere 10 blocks, I'll remind you that my foot was basically broken at that point.)

Things Many People Told me I MUST Do, that I Narrowly Avoided
1. See the Cindy Sherman show at MoMa. It's not that I didn't go to the show; I did. So did hundreds of other people. My feet hurt so much by the time I arrived that I couldn't imagine standing in line. I went into the lobby, mostly to sit down, but also to take a look at the gift shop. I perused a book in there that allows me to tell you this: as it turns out, I absolutely hate the work of Cindy Sherman. Hate. I couldn't be more thrilled that I discovered this before buying a ticket. Would that I had known before I limped my way to the museum. Should have gone to the Frick. Ah well.

I loved it. I'm wondering if maybe I should move there, even though springtime is not its natural state. I'll let you know what I decide. My upstairs neighbors are going to have a baby sometime this week, which may impact my thinking on this front. Meanwhile, in case you wondered, I have continued to check my email compulsively during the past many, many minutes it's taken me to write this, and my future spouse has not written. This may also impact my thinking on whether or not to move. Possibly my future spouse does not live in San Francisco. This would be inconvenient, but explain a lot.

Monday, April 16, 2012

To answer your question...

No. I did not die in New York.

I've been home for a whole week and yet I have said nothing to you, my faithful reader. Do I feel bad about this? Naturally, reader. Of course, I am assailed by guilt. Pretty much every lazy, inertia-based thing I [don't] do assails me with guilt. There is, therefore, a lot of guilt hovering around me, Pigpen-style. My aura is guilt-colored, which might make amends to some degree, but is hardly the same as actually going to the grocery store, now is it? Or the gym. Or reviewing my Italian. Or reading a book instead of watching television. On and on it goes.

I had a really delightful time in New York and I'll tell you all about it. However, I seem to be having a rough re-entry. Mi dispiache. (Ha! Look! Italian review! Things are already improving. I'll be back here soon.)

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

Chop chop

I got an email this morning from the blog bully with the subject heading "chop chop" and I steeled myself for some stern words about blog slacking, but that's not what he meant. Yay! It was a joke about the speediness/busy-ness of New Yorkers and how I'd better step up my game because I'm headed to NY in the morning. Don't worry, I had been planning to tell you: Hi. I'm going to NY tomorrow. I have to be on my way to the airport at 5:45AM, which is a time of day I generally opt out of, so please wish me luck. I hope to have stories to tell you when I get back.

Meanwhile, I'm in a dither about packing. April is a tricky time weather-wise. Will I be too hot? Will I be too cold? Will I look like a country bumpkin? (That has nothing to do with April. That has to do with New York.) What to do? This is also the inaugural journey of the very light suitcase I got for Christmas (thanks, Mom!) and I have discovered that its lightness may very well be related to its smallness. It is worryingly small. This doesn't concern me so very much for a four-day trip, but I am less confident about this summer's three weeks. Tell me, little suitcase, do you have the capacity for me to be consistently lovely for three weeks? On second thought, perhaps that is too much to ask of a suitcase. Have I mentioned the acne? It's true. My skin has been worse over the last month than it has at any point in my life. Why? Why, O ye gods? Whatever the reason, there is nothing the suitcase can do about it.

Something for you to ponder in my absence: why do pears rot from the inside out, so that you bite into their firm outer flesh without the slightest sense of trepidation, only to spit out a mouthful of mush? It seems odd for fruit to enjoy practical jokes. I win in the end though, because it's Free Cone Day at Ben and Jerry's (a mere block away). Ice cream! Take that, fruit.

(And don't go ahem-ing and raising your eyebrows toward the acne paragraph. I'm sure ice cream has nothing to do with it. In fact, I may apply an ice cream compress directly to my chin. Perhaps that will clear things up.)